Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

the stupidity of it all. Although nothing was ever traced back to him, it had been messy, and not fulfilling in any satisfactory way. It was an act which was flawed. Sebastian recognized that he had been detailed enough in his research, but subsequently had not reconnoitred the area accurately and thoroughly. He also concluded that to go so far from the ship was not the intelligent option he first thought; it gave numerous people the opportunity to see him along the way.

Although the harelip had been operated on, Sebastian could not hide the distinctive tram-line scar over his lip, which he knew was a definite identification marker. Someone might also notice his wig. Both facts set him aside from most other people. Sebastian could hear the conversation in his head.

“Yeah, I saw a guy, white, no, maybe Asian. Cannot remember the colour of his hair or eyes. Could have been anywhere between five foot five, to six feet tall. Oh, yeah, had a scar above his lip, like he had surgery on a harelip or something, and he had weird hair.”

So, an excursion out and about to fulfil his desires was not the way to go. In fact, if he wanted to get caught, this would be a sure way of ensuring that happened. Sebastian did not want to get caught.

His eureka moment came on his second cruise on the Duchess of Shetland cruise ship, those seven long years ago. During the first two weeks of the journey, a passenger had gone missing in the water surrounding the French Reunion Island. The island is located in the Indian Ocean, to the east of the African coast.

Jill Cooper was in her fifties and had simply gone missing. She was observed entering her cabin on the first Saturday night of the cruise, and then she was gone, declared missing by Sunday morning. Following a full search of the ship, no trace or evidence of her or what had happened to her was discovered.

Jock Walker was an old sea dog who hailed from Glasgow. Jock was still, at forty-two years of age, a cabin boy; he was Sebastian’s boy. He was a five-foot-two Glaswegian with shocking red hair and a pockmarked face, with an old knife scar running to the side of his right eye; a legacy from a drunken advance toward Moira of Paisley. Unfortunately, Moira’s husband did not see the funny side of this drunken encounter. Jock should have been in a more senior position after his twenty-three years at sea, but the drink and his antics had ruined that, as well as the few brain cells he had started life off with.

Jock had been raised up in the urban sprawl of Glasgow. In his youth, he frequented the streets and alleys of Hill Street and Renfrew Street in the dilapidated city centre. The large three-floor sandstone houses were in much need of tender loving care. When Jock was thirteen, his school organized a day’s outing to the beautiful Trossachs National Park, about an hour away by coach, but a million miles away by contrast.

The stunning area was spotted with a multitude of breweries interspersed with Dickensian villages that still discharged large plumes of smoke out of chimney stacks. The scenic locations, nestled in along the banks of Loch Lomond and between the Munros, as the Scots called their mountains, were a magnet to tourists. The master brewers utilized hundreds of years of inherited knowledge and skills to convert the icy-cold, crystal snow-clear water, and brewed the magical whiskies by the vatful. Jock had been introduced to the lovely malts of the beautiful national park by one of the older schoolchildren on that trip. Jock had been given a lifelong legacy on that day trip all those years ago, as he became hooked on the firewater. While it was well-known in the ships Jock had served on that he had a drinking problem; hangover or not, he always got up to do his duties. But he was a crew assistant and kept away from the passengers and on a tight leash.

The first cruise lines were British, and being British, they automatically included a class structure. Not just between passengers, such as first and second class, but also between the crew. It was always officers first and everyone else after. But the entertainers on board were treated as if they were royalty. Sebastian, as a headliner, was considered amongst the elite contingent of the crew, which entitled him to the same standard of service as the passengers.

Jock was cleaner, carrier, general dogsbody, and scandal sheet to several of the entertainers, including Sebastian.

Within twenty minutes of the first news that Jill Cooper had gone missing, Jock had relayed the news to several of his wards. He knocked on Sebastian’s door before entering to find Sebastian sitting at the small desk, reading some music scores.

“Aye, staff captain told the chief steward who told Roily the senior steward that she was a single woman in her fifties. She was supposed to be here celebrating her divorce,” Jock said, giving a knowing wink.

“Obviously looking for a little action. They become invisible at that age, so probably ended up with a gin and tonic rather than a roll in the hay. Probably drank a little more; gin is a well-known depressant. Finally the sixty-foot drop into the dark ocean below. Probably seemed like an excellent idea at the time.” Jock added, “Silly bitch,” as an afterthought.

“Captain sent out three lifeboats to search for her this morning, but she could have jumped twelve hours ago. Anyway, with the number of sharks around here she’s dead meat, and her next appearance will be out of the rear end of a tiger shark sometime soon,” Jock said, as a matter of fact.

Sebastian was fascinated by the unsubstantiated jumps to conclusions, and lack of facts that Jock had just presented to him.

“Not wanting facts